Gather ’round kiddies. Your old pal Marcus is going to tell you about how he accidentally wrote his first novel fifteen years ago. He’s going to drive you wild with intrigue, then he’s going to drop a big orange Amazon buy button on you. And you’re gonna click it, because you love that sweet sweet early-2000s retro scene.
During a recent Skype call, my mother mentioned she was going through an old recipe file and found one of mine. “I don’t have recipes,” I said. “I defrost things.” “Well, this one has your name on it, and it’s in your old handwriting.” I squinted at the card she held up to the camera. “Butterscotch Yummies?” I asked. “Close,” she replied. “Apparently this is a recipe for ‘Buttscoth Yummies.’” Despite the forensic evidence suggesting I was responsible for this card, I have no recollection of it. Though I do like the fact that some unknown person with a blue pen added an “er” to
The other day we stumbled across one of Portland’s quirky little treasures: Caravan: The Tiny House Hotel. It is just what it sounds like. A corner lot filled with cute little hipster houses that can be your tiny home-away-from-actual-sized home. Of course, my immediate thought was, “Pfft! Those aren’t ‘tiny.’ I’ve stayed in ‘tiny.’ I’ve slept in a Snoozebox.” It was December 2015, back when Amanda and I were exiled in London. We were planning a trip to Cardiff, and Amanda let me take care of booking the hotel. Usually she’s the one who does it, because she’s great at discovering a city’s unique character